by Keith Laumer
“You haven’t given us much choice,” David said. “You came as enemies―and mankind has a way of fighting back against attack―”
“I admitted that was an error! Dorn croaked. “But it’s not too late to correct it! Now our first brood-vessel lands there, half a mile away. Lay aside your weapon, Vincent! Welcome us in peace! Let us share your world, and in return―”
With a sudden yell, Anoti came to his feet.
“Don’t listen to him, Vincent! He’s lying!” As he shouted the words, he sprang at the hunched figure―and Dorn whirled with inhuman swiftness, struck out, one devastating blow. David heard the sickening crunch of bone, saw Anoti’s crumpled body tumble back like a broken doll into the dust, blood gushing from his mouth, his chest smashed into pulped flesh.
And in the same instant, David’s fists tightened on the machine gun’s triggers. Sound smashed out, and vivid, stuttering light. Dorn staggered back amid the shriek of ricochets as the steel-jacketed slugs poured into him ripping the clothing from his body. He tottered, regained his balance, stood for a moment, rocking to the shocking impact, staring up at David Vincent through that terrible fire, his rag flapping as if in a high wind. Then he advanced, step by step, directly into the flaming muzzle of the gun. One step―a second―and he halted, his scarred face twisted into a mask of impotent fury; then, as though some inner reservoir of strength had been suddenly exhausted, he jerked, staggered backward. His head jerked; one eye exploded from its socket. Pieces flew from his torso, stripped of its rage. And still the armor-piercing slugs hosed into that near-indestructible body, smashing, ripping, tearing―
Slowly, Dorn fell, kicking and flailing. David followed with the stream of tracers, saw the twisted arms reach, the crooked fingers scrabble, pulling the severed torso toward him, while the lower body, left behind, thrashed among the rocks. And as the last round of the belt smacked into the maimed thing, it gave a final shudder and fell still, the outreaching hands only inches from the iron treads of the vehicle. In the echoing silence that followed, the smashed, torn face turned upward, the shattered jaw moved.
“More . . . of us . . . will come.. the dying voice whispered. “The Great Race . . . will not die . . .
Then it fell silent, and David was alone, under the nightmare sky.
3
A thousand yards away across the expanse of barren rock, the alien vessel rested in a pool of blue light. For a long moment, David stared at it, half-stunned by the violence of the preceding seconds. Then he jumped down, swung into the drivers seat, started up the engine, slammed the half-track in gear, gunned down the slope. A vivid point of light glared suddenly near the top of the alien craft; a shaft of pale light speared out, smoking across the ground toward him. David wrenched the wheel hard, veered to the right into the shelter of a line of rock slabs, thundered on over rough ground in the darkness. Ahead, a narrow gap appeared on the left. He braked, swung between tank-sized boulders, and slammed to a stop. Dead ahead, less than two hundred yards away, the alien ship shed its ghostly light on the rocky ground. In that light, creatines moved. Not humanoids, these, but monstrous grotesqueries, like some nightmare sea-things, hauled up from the eternal darkness of the ocean’s abysmal depths. There were six of them, knobbed and spined, moving on rows of stubbed appendages. Seven, eight, David counted; and still more poured from the vessel, working with frantic haste to erect a spidery framework, rigging cables and power lines from the vessel.
Brooding racks, Dorn had said. What the term might mean, David didn’t know―but in his mind was the image of seething nests of embryonic grubs, planted somewhere―far underground, or broadcast across the landscape in billions, to grow into the fungoid horrors of which Anoti had seen a sample―and to mature with terrifying speed into full-grown Invaders, super-human, unkillable―
David caught himself. No―not unkillable! Not quite. Dorn had been tough―but the bullets had ripped him in two. And there were more belts ready . . . .
But the range was too great. He had to be sine; there would be no second chance . . .
Savagely, he gunned the engine, and the powerful armored vehicle charged from its hiding place, roaring down on the alien vessel and its nightmare crew. For a moment, through the dust-streaked windshield,
David saw no indication that they were aware of his precipitous approach; then two of the creatines nearest the access ladder whirled, their multiple limbs rippling, flowed back up inside the hull. A moment later, the searchlight beam winked on, raked across the ground toward him. Instinctively, David cut the wheel, veering from the path of the pale, ominous light―but it reversed, swept back, blazed full in his face―dazzling, scorching hot!
David ducked down behind the dash, saw the paint bubble and smoke on the metal above him, saw the steering wheel sag and flow, saw smoke pour from the upholstered seat back. The windshield blew inward, scattering globs of molten glass which scorched his jacket, blistering where they touched his skin. Flames leaped up, whipped by the wind shrieking through the empty windshield frame. Still holding the gas pedal to the floor, David fought to hold the wheel steady, in spite of the searing pain in his hands.
A terrific shock rocked the speeding car, ripping the wheel tore from David’s grasp. Helplessly, he felt the heavy machine careen to the left in a wild skid, felt it tilting, saw the searching heat-beam flash on the upwhirled cloud of dust-
Then a world-ending smash, a sense of falling, a tumult of sound, of light, that faded, faded, into endless blackness . . . .
4
Buzzings, like the angry buzzings of bees, when their hive is disturbed. Harsh lights that flickered, died, flickered, cutting through the soft cocoon of darkness, bringing him back to consciousness, to awareness, to―A terrible pain shot through David’s head. He groaned, reached up, felt a deep gash across his scalp. The side of his face was covered with blood, the front of his borrowed Air Force blouse sodden. He tried to move, found his legs pinioned by weight across them. He groped, found a grip, with an effort that wrenched a groan from his Hps, pulled himself sideways. The half-charred seat toppled off him at the movement. The car was on its side; his shoulder was wedged against sand that filled the smashed window opening. Painfully, he dragged himself upright, wiped blood from his eye, looked out at a scene like a Medieval conception of Hell.
Against the backdrop of the meteor-streaked sky, the alien machine bulked pearly grey, as big as a barn, less than a hundred feet from him. Long shadows moved in the blue glare―shadows of fantastic shape. From this distance, David could see the scaled, grey skin, the networks of purple blood vessels across the pale undersides, the stiff bristles studding the short limbs―and the straps and pouches buckled around those hideous bodies, that told more plainly than words that these monstrous things were motivated by an intelligence that equalled or exceeded that of man.
He heard another buzz, close at hand; something slithered down across the side of the car, dropped to the ground with a heavy thump. David froze, his eyes slitted, as a dark shadow loomed for a moment beside him. Pale, piercing yellow eyes gazed in at him. He didn’t breathe, didn’t move . . . .
The eyes moved on; the creature turned away. David watched it ripple back to rejoin its fellows. Apparently he had been left for dead. Slowly, with infinite care, David pushed up, past the melted steering wheel, reached the opposite window, empty of glass. There was no alarm as he thrust his head out.
The aliens, contemptuous of man, having seen him lying in the wreck, blood soaked, were taking no further interest in him―he hoped.
He pulled himself up through the opening, slid down across the dented roof to the ground. The machine gun rested at a crooked angle, half-ripped from its mounting, its muzzle pointing down at the rocks. Quickly, David ran his hands over it. As far as he could tell, it seemed to be intact. He gripped it, swung the barrel up, up, wedged it against the edge of the roof. Working in the deep shadow of the car, he straightened out the twisted belt of ammunition. As he did, the end slipped, cla
ttered loudly against the car. At once, one of the alien beings snapped erect, spun, headed toward his position.
“OK, you’ll do to start with,” David muttered―and squeezed the paired triggers.
Fire boomed and smashed as the powerful gun roared out its message of destruction. The advancing alien halted, gave a convulsive shake and went down. David saw dark fluid well from a dozen gaping wounds in its underside. He traversed the gun, swiftly, caught a second alien as it charged toward him and another pair as they labored to drag a heavy beam upright. They fell, and the beam with them, bringing down another section of the construction. Two more of the creatures leaped in to save the structure, bucked and writhed under the hail of bullets, went down, flopping and humping in the sand. But there were more―too many more. As David swept the nearest of them with his withering fire, others raced for the shelter of the vessel, disappeared up the short access ramp. David raised his sights, poured fire against the hull―but in vain. The high velocity slugs failed to mark the strange material. And then the heat-beam winked on, cut around sharply to bear on the car. A tire burst into flame; the metal of the gun’s shield glowed cherry red, then white. David held on, firing at the open entry, until the metal scorched his hands . . . still he hung on; pouring in the fire . . . . At last he stumbled back, the insistent whine of the energy ray all about him. He saw the beam eat through the car’s armored side, laying bare the frame, the fuel tank-
David turned to run, felt his legs collapse under him. He went down, slamming his face against rock. Half-dazed, he crawled, heading for the shelter of an outcropping of rock-
Light fountained behind him; metal whined past his head, clanged off rock. He saw one of the halftrack’s wheels, its tire burning furiously, roll past him, strike a ridge and bound high, flaring against the night sky. He rose and ran on, dimly aware of fire sparkling around him. He fell, and rose, and ran again . . . .
He lay with his face against rock, hearing a dull angry roaring that grew, drowned the rush of the fire. Light glared suddenly in his face, blinding him, rushing at him from the darkness ahead.
A high, dark silhouette loomed beside him, halted with a clatter of metal, an angry backfiring of immense idling engines. It was a tank, the dusty white star on its side gleaming dully in the flickering fight. David saw the blue beam of the aliens come to bear on it, saw smoke boil up as the metal grew cherry red―
The turret moved, clanking, with a whine of servo motors, the long snout of the 20mm cannon depressed, came to bear on the fantastic vessel confronting it. There was a flash, an ear-bursting bellow. The tank skidded backward two feet, driven by the recoil―and two hundred feet distant, the alien vessel rocked as the high explosive shell detonated against it. And as the smoke cleared, David saw a ragged rent in the smooth curve of the craft’s side. Again the tank’s gun spoke, and from beyond it, another gun roared, and still another. The blue beam jerked away from its first target, seeking easier prey. David saw it glare on a second tank, hold on the vehicle’s gun muzzle―
With a blast that shook the ground, the target tank exploded, filling the air with screaming shrapnel; the heat ray had touched off the shell in the chamber. But the firing from the other tank went on, faster now, as more machines came up, each adding its voice to the battle. And abruptly, with a hissing crackle audible even above the thunder of the guns, the invading ship caught fire, in an instant was an incandescent tower of corruseating fury, boiling up into the Hallowe’en sky . . . .
Silence fell. Men were clambering down from the tanks, their faces ruddy in the glare of that fierce blaze. David tried to stand, to call, but only a hoarse croak sounded. He felt himself falling, and once again, darkness closed in . . .
5
A dream David thought. I’m dead, and dreaming . . . . And then there were hands on him, faces that bent over him, voices that spoke words he understood:
“ . . . this guy here! Looks like he’s hurt bad!”
“ . . . what outfit?”
“Must be from the Air Guard unit. Get him out of there..
“ . . . easy. Lay him up there, fellows . . . “
Then there was a jarring, bumping ride; vague, ghostly bumps, that David hardly felt. He lay on his back, looking up at a curve of brown cloth above him. He turned his head, saw a man in torn and dusty olive drab, his arm bandaged, a splint on his leg. Another wounded man lay on his other side. He was in an Army ambulance―or a truck, converted to temporary use . . . .
Voices sounded near him:
“ . . . don’t get it, Lieutenant. We come barrelling out here on account of we get word some wiseacre’s headed this way in a stolen ‘track. About the time we think we’ve got him―shooting stars, yet, the whole sky full of ‘em! And then―that―whatever it was! I seen it with my own eyes, and I still couldn’t tell you whether I was seeing things or―well, you tell me, Lieutenant, what did we see out there?”
“I didn’t see a thing, Sarge,” a hard-bitten voice came back. “And if you’re smart, neither did you.”
“Huh? But we fired on it―the whole outfit―”
“We fired on the spot where the tracers were going in. We got the command to open up, and we did. That’s all I know.”
“Yeah, but―”
“The major’s in command. Maybe he saw something―he could never prove it now. Let him write the report. You and me, Sarge―we’re just a couple of dumb armor-jockeys, right?”
“Yeah―I see what you mean . . . .”
“How’re they doing in back?”
There was a pause. David sensed a flashlight beam flicking over him. He lay still and silent.
“No change. Funny about the fly boy. I wonder how he got mixed in this?”
“Let the Air Force explain that one.”
‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Me, I don’t know nothing . . . .”
David raised himself on one elbow. In the darkness, a wounded man groaned softly. He crawled carefully over the man, fighting back the dizziness, looked out through the open flap at the rear of the speeding truck. Dark empty hills flowed past. In the distance there were the lights of a small town . . . .
The truck slowed, turned right, lumbered up over a grade crossing. As it halted momentarily at the top, David slid over the tailgate, dropped into the ditch. He watched as the taillights of the truck dwindled away along the road. Then he rose and slowly, painfully, started for the distant lights.
He would find shelter there, lie up until his wounds and burns healed. He had money enough to quiet curiosity. He thought of Sergeant Anoti―dead, his body still lying where he had fallen, perhaps. One more casualty in the secret, silent war. A war not yet over, a war that for David Vincent would never end, until the last of the Invaders had been hunted down and killed.
Overhead, the stars looked down, indifferent.
